


Who Dares to Love Forever

by ewinofthelake



Series: The Deadly Duo in Time [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #TrickOrJaq2019, Alternate Universe - Historical, Arya The Lace Shredder & Jaqen The Corset Burner, Blood Magic, Broqen Bromance™, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Dragonlords, Dragons, F/M, Happy Halloween!, Historical Fantasy, True Love, Vampires, Victorian era, direwolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 11:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21252350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewinofthelake/pseuds/ewinofthelake
Summary: Do you believe in destiny? That even the powers of time can be altered for a single purpose? That the luckiest man who walks on this earth is the one who finds... true love?King's Landing, 1897.Lady Arya Stark seeks revenge.She will find what she doesn't remember having lost four hundred years before.Dracula AU





	Who Dares to Love Forever

**Author's Note:**

> My entry 1/2 for #TrickOrJaq2019 [Trick or Jaqen? Jaqen H'ghar/Arya Stark Halloween challenge]
> 
> You will recognise a few quotes here, because this story is shamelessly inspired by Bram Stoker's Dracula by F. F. Coppola, 1992, which in turn takes inspiration from Dracula by Dan Curtis, 1973. Both films (and countless other productions) are of course based on the novel Dracula by Bram Stoker, 1897, but differ from it in that they both identify the Dracula character and the historical Dracula (the notorious mediaeval ruler Vlad III the Impaler), and have Dracula sailing to England in search of his dead wife reborn, whose name though (Elisabeta) comes exclusively from Coppola's version (Vlad's first wife's name is unknown historically).
> 
> It just so marvellously happens that both Coppola's film and GRRM's world feature events approx four hundred years apart, so what happens in the Romanian lands in 1462 is set in Valyria, and what happens in London in 1897 is set in King's Landing. My fictional Order of the Dragonlords takes its name from the historical Order of the Dragon. I took some liberties with the meaning of only death may pay for life. And please note: Aria is not a typo, and Valyrians are not fireproof!
> 
> Recommended listening:  
the film score by Wojciech Kilar, in particular Dracula – The Beginning, Love Remembered, The Hunt Builds;  
My Sweet Prince by Placebo;  
Queen Of Winter, Throned by Cradle of Filth.
> 
> ASoIaF characters belong to George R. R. Martin; Qēlīxes is my (not so) little boy.  
Titled after the line by Queen.  
The [Towers of Valyria](https://www.tednasmith.com/george-r-r-martin/the-towers-of-valyria-originally-old-valyria).

_The King's Landing Evening Gazette, 30 October 1897_

THE LAST OF THE DIREWOLVES IS IN TOWN!  
Come and see the oldest magic still alive, starting tomorrow at King's Landing Zoo!

*

~ l ~ a ~ d ~ y ~ ~ s ~ t ~ a ~ r ~ k ~

"Seven hells, Sansa, move!"

Lady Arya Stark was not known for her good manners. And certainly not for her patience. Glowing with excitement, she trudged through the crowd amassed outside King's Landing Zoo with her sister, the crisp air of the early morning hitting their faces. What awaited them beyond the gates was something living men had never seen before in their time, a beast from a long gone past, a legend wrapped in magic. And she didn't have time to waste.

She had learned it the hard way. Life could be ripped out of its body any moment, and she desperately needed to see with her own eyes that magic – despite what any Maester believed – was not gone from the world.

"Calm down, little sister, they put it in a cage. It's not like it can run away."

Arya shuddered at Sansa's words, and looked at her with dreary eyes. "Yes. And those who truly deserve a cage are still running free."

Two moons. Two bloody moons already.

And their father's death had not been avenged yet.

Lord Eddard Stark was respected and loved by everyone in the city, but his political opponents didn't share the sentiment. Jealousy was a bitch, and so were they: one day, they plotted his assassination, leaving Arya depressed and angry with the world.

"I'm going to kill them," she spat under her breath as they finally walked through the gates.

"Oh, stop this madness!" Sansa grabbed her by the shoulder. "The Master of Laws will make justice. And you don't even know if it was really them!"

But they were. Arya knew they were.

Old fat Robert Baratheon simply hated her father. Hated his success, his beautiful wife, his two lovely daughters. He had only been given a bastard son who spent all his nights – and his father's money – in the brothels of Flea Bottom, and an alcoholic wife who most probably even at that very moment was cheating on him. They had to die. They deserved it. All three of them.

All of a sudden, metallic noises accompanied by a terrified scream drowned out the chatter of the people lined up to see the beast. The sisters gasped and looked at each other as more screams followed. It all happened so fast Arya didn't even realise what was going on. They grasped hands, tried to stick together, but the crowd went mad, and in no time they were separated.

"Arya! Where are you?!" Arya heard her sister's cries and turned in all directions searching for her as the uncontrollable crowd dispersed. Soon she found herself alone, the now empty cage lying before her.

A low growl behind her warned her that she was not entirely alone.

Slowly, she turned around, and her grey eyes met the icy orbs of the direwolf.

*

~ l ~ o ~ r ~ d ~ ~ h' ~ g ~ h ~ a ~ r ~

_Valyria, 1462_

"Aria! Where are you?!"

Lord Jaqen H'ghar stormed in the Tower of the Order, slamming the doors behind him. He was seething. It had only been days since his return, and his fellow dragonlords were already breathing down his neck.

His recent travel to Westeros had gifted him with a lovely wife, a dark-haired beauty he fell utterly and completely in love with while following the pull of magic as he wandered the North with his dragon. As soon as duty called, she had abandoned everything to follow him back across the Narrow Sea. She was his true love.

And now she was nowhere to be found.

"Where is she?!"

The four head members of the Order of the Dragonlords were gathered in their usual late afternoon meeting. When Jaqen strode into the council chamber and his fist violently hit the table around which they were seated, they all raised their eyes and looked at him.

And right there and then, Jaqen knew.

He knew he had lost her.

Time and again he dared to defy the Order and its rules, rules written aeons before by dead people for dead people, but this time his choices undermined the essence itself of Valyrian society. He had married for love, instead of following the mad tradition of the dragonlords to marry brother to sister _to keep the bloodlines pure,_ they said, to pass their silver hair and purple eyes on to all future generations, when he never even cared about his own silver hair and purple eyes. It was betrayal in their eyes. And now he had lost her.

The Order ruled Valyria with fire and blood. They rode dragons as beasts of war, and the head members practiced blood magic recklessly. They had most certainly taken her away from him with a spell.

"You killed her!"

One of the dragonlords slowly rose to his feet, staring at Jaqen with a sneer on his face. "Now, now, Lord H'ghar, we are slavers, not killers."

Jaqen approached him with careful steps, his hand drifting towards the Valyrian steel dagger hidden up his sleeve.

"The fault for her fate is all yours. You disregarded your status one time too many. Leaving your place to go wandering around Westeros like a child... That, you could do. But you dared to bring one of them among us. We can't let you stain our blood with hers. But do not brood! She will live out her life, yes..." The dragonlord paused and chuckled. "In another time and place. When you will be dead. If she is lucky, she will be spared the heartache and will not even remember you."

_Only death may pay for life,_ Jaqen told her once. He didn't need to think further.

The dragonlord who spoke was the first to go.

Jaqen's dagger shone in the dim light of the room. A slit to the throat, fast. Blood, so much blood, spilling and staining the clothes, the floor.

A few drops splashed accidentally into Jaqen's mouth. With his eyes fixed on the scene before him, he tasted the blood, disgusted at first, surprised soon after. He felt _something._ He wanted more.

It was a bloodbath.

The three remaining dragonlords were slaughtered as well, Jaqen making quick work of their throats. But he didn't stop there. He drank. He feasted on their blood. The more he drank, the more he felt. And he felt... powerful. The magic... The blood magic... It was in their blood.

"_Ānogar glaeson iksis... se ñuhon ūja kessa!_"

And that night, as his hair turned a dark shade of red and his eyes darkened to a deep blue, Jaqen became _more._

Immortal but lifeless, ruthless but fair, moved by hate but guided by love.

As he absorbed all the power of the four dragonlords, he vowed to live forever and travel every speck of the world in search of his lost love, making blood his only form of sustenance, essential to revive the blood magic that animated his body and allowed him to alter the powers of time.

Magic... he thought. It was magic that led him to her the first time. It was that same magic that drew him to her four hundred years later.

He had heard of the capture of the direwolf, and he just knew that he needed to be in King's Landing. And here he was, watching her from a distance, his heightened senses allowing him to make out the sweet scent of her hair, the delicate shape of her fingers, the soft tone of her voice as she spoke with her red-haired lady friend at the zoo entrance.

_I have crossed oceans of time to find you._

And when the beast escaped from its cage and threatened her – because humans were evil, humans caged beasts and used them and used each other and killed – he appeared right in front of her, crouched down, and kindly petted the direwolf into submission.

The red-haired lady had fled, and so had everyone else.

They were alone.

"Come," he whispered to her, still petting the direwolf. The snarling beast had turned into a purring puppy under his touch.

She moved, graceful as he remembered. When she was close enough, she crouched down like he did, and hesitantly her hands reached out and touched the direwolf. Her gloved fingers brushed against his as they both stroked the snowy fur softly.

_Aria. My love._

She smiled at him, so radiant and precious. And he smiled back. Although he was well aware now that this was not _his Aria._ Not anymore. Not _yet._

"She likes you," he started. "There is much to be learned from beasts."

"_She?_ How do you know–"

"And she is pregnant."

"But... This means..."

The newspapers called it the _last_ of the direwolves. _A lie._

Jaqen sighed, fading glimpses of a far gone past flashing before his eyes – the love, the duty, the tears.

"Go now, girl," he murmured to the direwolf. "Run back north to your mate."

"She is beautiful. And... She doesn't scare me. Well, not really. It's as if I have met her before. She–" She flushed suddenly, cleared her throat. "I haven't thanked you. You saved me."

They were still crouching down, watching the direwolf trotting away.

"I am Arya Stark."

Jaqen braced himself for what was to come. _It will hurt, my love. But you need to remember._

He introduced himself.

"This man has the honour to be Jaqen H'ghar, prince of the Free City of Lorath."

When he spoke his name, Arya stood up. Quickly.

Too quickly.

He was sure it was shock what he saw in her eyes for the briefest of moments. But modern fashion forced women to wear corsets, mutilating tools that restricted their movements and breathing, so perhaps the shock he registered was just a harbinger of fainting. Fainting which in fact occurred mere seconds later.

Jaqen could only hold her and help her to one of the wooden benches nearby. His deep blue eyes flaming purple in rage, he swore he would set fire to all the corsets he should ever come across.

Within moments, Arya regained consciousness, and after she apologised profusely – and adorably – for her _stupid fainting,_ they found themselves talking again about direwolves.

And dragons.

"Oh, sadly they are but legends. Like those creatures who are believed to drink blood to survive and never get old... _Vampīra._" Her accent when she spoke his native language had always been so, _so_ lovely.

"You have just met a direwolf. Was that a legend?" He asked with mock hurt. "There is magic in the world. Direwolves and dragons are magic. _Vampīra_ as well."

"I'd like to learn High Valyrian one day," she declared after a beat. "That one is the only word I know."

"It is a dead language, no one uses it anymore and–"

"But it was the language of the dragonlords! If I ever get to meet a dragon, I would be able to communicate with them!"

"No one has seen a dragon for centuries, lovely lady." Her enthusiasm warmed him. His term of endearment seemed to warm her as well, if the colour on her cheeks was any indication. He continued. "The best possible place for them to live would be west of Westeros."

"But what’s west of Westeros? That’s where all the maps stop."

"The edge of the world, maybe. Where no man has ever been."

"I’d like to see that," she insisted with dreamy eyes. "I would _really_ like to see a dragon."

"But no more zoos." He sighed again. "No beast deserves to be kept in a cage."

Dragons were intelligent, sentient creatures.

Like his Qēlīxes, the majestic beast with scales of grey and silver whom he had shared most of his human life with.

Jaqen recalled the last time they were together. The Doom of Valyria, they later called that night. The cause remained unknown to the world. All the dragonlords were burned to death by their own dragons, and the beasts had then flown away never to be found again, thus declaring the end of the Valyrian empire.

How bittersweet was the moment he set the dragons free.

How startling to discover his new psychic abilities and use them to fuel the dragons against their own masters.

A night of discoveries, that was.

Out of desperation and still in a blind rage after killing the four head members of the Order, he went so far as to physically confront Qēlīxes.

He tasted the dragon's blood, and when his bloodlust subsided he realised in wonder how inordinately strong just a sip had made him – he realised, if he should ever find himself in need of blood, that his friend would be able to sustain him for days with only a few drops.

And Qēlīxes must have ingested some of Jaqen's as well. Each dragon shared a special bond with their dragonlord, their empathy often allowing them to sense when their rider needed them. After that night, what Jaqen could feel went so much further than that. He was able to track Qēlīxes. To feel his emotions.

How bittersweet indeed.

Because, as the dragons were wreaking havoc on their masters, the only thing he could do was to instruct Qēlīxes to fly away, lead them all to the uncharted lands west of Westeros, where no man lived, and be free.

_We will meet again, my friend._

Arya saying goodbye startled him out of his thoughts.

"No," Jaqen stopped her. "Ser Bronn will take us."

They walked out of the zoo, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, and he led them to the exact spot where Bronn was waiting with the carriage.

When he started to work as his dayman, Bronn (and later the amiable woman who inexplicably accepted to become his wife, Lollys) had to drink a welcome-to-the-household concoction whose secret ingredient was a drop of Jaqen's blood. This was to track his position in case of need, but first and foremost to feel his emotions. Jaqen needed to be sure that Bronn was loyal. To the death. And he was. At first, perhaps because Jaqen paid him well. But throughout the years, the two developed a peculiar sort of friendly relationship, until Jaqen came to trust him enough to make him aware of his condition. And Bronn seemed relieved to discover that there was an actual reason why Jaqen was still young and beautiful while he looked more and more _like an old fart,_ as he used to say.

He was even joyous the day he learned that he would have to address Jaqen with the title of Prince, because this made him earn for himself the title of Ser.

"My... condition requires that I am to be... escorted, shall we say, in my daytime errands," Jaqen explained to Arya as they went. Realising too late that he should have called them _daily_ errands.

"Oh, I can't stand to be a lady myself. And you are a prince! I can't even imagine what being like you entails."

_My love, how I wish you could._

They soon reached the Starks' residence.

Jaqen got out of the carriage and helped Arya out. He looked at her lovely face, imprinting her every feature in his mind, features he knew so well but that he was afraid fate could take away from him once again.

The morning sun was getting high in the sky, and he was starting to feel weak. It was time for him to get back to his lair.

"Have a lovely day," he kissed her hand softly. "My lady of Stark."

*

~ l ~ a ~ d ~ y ~ ~ s ~ t ~ a ~ r ~ k ~

Sansa was to be wed in just a few moons, and Arya knew that sooner or later she was expected as well to choose a husband for herself. Sooner rather than later. All her suitors were feeble and meek, though. All of them. Prince H'ghar, instead... Well, he was something else entirely.

Sure, she barely knew him and couldn't call him a suitor... yet. But Arya was not a conventional lady. She was ready to make the first move herself if need be.

_My sweet prince..._

He was alluring and inhumanly beautiful, he had the predatory look of direwolves, and his Essosi accent was an exquisite reminder of a distant past. All of him was a riddle she was eager to solve, and their next encounter couldn't come soon enough.

Their first meeting had left her simply entranced. The rush at the zoo and the close encounter with the direwolf aroused such feelings in her, confusing feelings, which almost resembled memories. And the shock upon hearing his name, so familiar yet so foreign... But he was a prince; she must have read it on the newspapers so many times, and that was the reason why she thought she recognised it, she decided.

The sun was setting when a prince and a lady entered the new fine establishment in the heart of the Red Keep that was said to be serving the best absinthe in the whole Crownlands. This according to Sansa's betrothed, who suggested the place right after attending its opening; and Arya was about to find out if the grumpy man for once had been right.

After settling at a private table, Prince H'ghar poured the drink for Arya.

"The green fairy who lives in the absinthe wants your soul. But you are safe with me."

And somehow she knew she was. She recalled how easily he tamed the direwolf, how she joined him, unafraid, their hands entwining, magic sparkling from the fur through their fingers... _Who is he?_

"Tell me of your home, lovely lady."

"Home..." Arya sighed. "I never felt at home in King's Landing. I can't explain why. It's like I don't belong here."

Prince H'ghar was watching her with a wistful look.

"And since Father's death..." She wasn't used to speaking about it with anyone, but when she started, the words wouldn't stop. She told him everything. About Mother and Sansa and how strong they had been. About her depression, her anger, her need for revenge.

About the Baratheons.

"I want them to suffer. I hate them. If I ever leave to go find the lands west of Westeros, my mother and sister will certainly stay. They like it here. But I need to know that they are safe, I need to get things settled before I go. Three lives I shall have. That's what I want."

"If you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting–"

"Only death may pay for life."

She saw his eyes widen, and after a moment he spoke. "They say it is easy if you know the way. Do _you_ know the way?"

"I would learn," she replied with no hesitation.

She sipped at her glass – the best absinthe indeed – and for a while they basked in a pleasant silence.

"Tell me of _your_ home," she said eventually. Lorath was but a speck in the wide Shivering Sea, one of the least known portions of Essos. She wanted to know. "Tell me of your... princess," she added, almost shyly. He never mentioned one. She _needed_ to know.

"My princess... was my home. She was the most radiant woman in all the empires of the world, and I the luckiest man for having been given such a precious gift."

Arya's breath hitched.

"My home was the most beautiful place in all creation because she was with me. But..." He lowered his gaze. "No place holds meaning for me anymore. Like your father was taken from you, jealous opponents took her from her prince. She rests in the dark since then, even though what she deserves is the light. I wish I could give it back to her... but I can't."

As the prince spoke, Arya felt a strange numbness. It seemed to her as though she had exited her body and was watching from a limbo the death of the princess. She was seized by a dreadful dizziness, as if she were falling, his torment and woe closing in on her.

This time, her breath stopped altogether, suddenly, like the breath of the princess must have stopped when her life was ripped out of her body. She stood, unable to sit still. Turned away, her eyes rimmed with red. Clutched at her chest.

And felt a forlorn tear dampening her cheek.

"I am most sorry for being the cause of this," his warm voice whispered in her ear. She hadn't realised he had come to her and was now holding her from behind, one hand wrapped around her waist, the other gently brushing the tear from her face.

She closed her eyes, relished the closeness of his body. Searched his hands with hers. She turned in his arms, and another tear escaped her lids. This time, he touched it with his lips.

"My lovely lady..."

She had just regained her breath, but he stole it once again when his lips slowly and reverently descended on hers.

*

The next day, at lunch with her mother, Arya couldn't stop thinking about him – the sadness in him that broke her heart, the comfort his presence infused in her.

And couldn't help talking about him.

Lady Catelyn Stark valued first impressions greatly. And what an exceptional first impression Prince H'ghar had made on her. _The man who saved my daughters from the beast._ Once they both got home that day, the sisters made sure to leave out the details about the incident – Sansa couldn't tell anything at all because she was not even present – so Catelyn decided to name him that way.

"He is one of the princes of Lorath." Arya didn't give a bloody shite about titles, but she knew her mother dreamed of a good match for her little daughter, and began with that.

"A prince?" As she expected, her mother was positively glowing. So Arya proceeded to tell her what truly fascinated her about him.

"And so much more. He told me a lot about his past, yesterday," _after kissing me senseless._ "He has done so much in his life, he has been an alchemist, and a warrior, and–"

"Arya, what do you mean he has been an alchemist?" In a heartbeat, the glowing was gone. "The world has not seen a real alchemist for probably a century."

Arya bit her lip and tried to remember if maybe she had mistaken his words. From his looks, Prince H'ghar must have just a few years on her; he couldn't possibly be that old. Perhaps he had been talking about one of his ancestors.

"What is his name?"

"His name..." The name she heard in her dreams all night. "His name is Jaqen H'ghar."

"Jaq– Oh, Arya, none of the three princes of Lorath goes by that name!" By that point, Catelyn's voice was heavy with desperation. "Who is this man?!"

_But why... Why his name... Who are you, Jaqen H'ghar?_ Arya couldn't think of an answer. _And how could I not know about Lorath? Of course, because I am not a bookworm like Sansa!_

It was clear now why he skipped the Lorathi speech pattern so often – at first she thought it was because he desired to mingle with the Westerosi. And it was clear now why he slipped up sometimes when he spoke – at first she thought it was because the Common Tongue was not his native language; but in the end, he just had something to hide. There was no riddle to solve; in the end, all of him was a lie.

Arya threw her napkin on the table and left.

She wanted an explanation.

She should have known better than to trust him. She had never felt that happy, not even before her father's death. She should have known that such happiness couldn't exist. In the few moments spent with this man, she had felt more alive than she ever had, despite the subtle guilt that was beginning to eat her up because she had _duties_ and she knew it wasn't right to indulge in happiness until they weren't done.

Happiness was a distraction. Now, she only felt confused and lost.

Ser Bronn welcomed her with a smirk on his face. _Ser_ Bronn... He might as well have been a cut-throat for all she cared.

"The prince is... Well, he can't receive you right now. He needs to get his beauty sleep."

Arya was stepping impatiently on the threshold of the villa _the prince_ had described as his temporary residence in King's Landing. She didn't believe a word of what Bronn was saying. She didn't believe anything anymore. Muttering a few curses, she walked past him towards what she supposed must be Jaqen's bedchamber.

Bronn followed her, and tried (if truth be told, not very convincingly) to stop her, until they got to the door.

Just as she was lifting her hand to the handle, determined to force her way into the room, the door opened and there stood Jaqen. He wore a loose pair of breeches, a long unbuttoned shirt, and a dark expression of curiosity.

His eyes were fixed on hers.

"Thank you, Ser Bronn, I will take it from here." His voice was strangely neutral.

They stood in silence while Bronn walked away.

Jaqen raised his arms and braced himself against both sides of the doorframe, and Arya's gaze dipped to his chest, which was now showing through his open shirt. She felt her cheeks blushing furiously, but she wouldn't let his skin distract her.

Oh, his skin, so smooth, so– "You're a liar."

"I am."

"Don't lie again! You tricked–" The words died on her lips as she realised what he had just said. "You... You're admitting it?"

"I am," he said again.

*

~ l ~ o ~ r ~ d ~ ~ h' ~ g ~ h ~ a ~ r ~

Jaqen was in the middle of his daytime rest. His condition made him too weak to move about during the hours when the sun was highest in the sky, so when humans sat at the table for lunch, he disappeared into the darkness of his bedchamber to regain his power.

And of course Bronn did not stop her. Although he was downright happy when Jaqen finally found her, he spent the last few days playfully mocking _the prince _about his _infatuation with the girl._ Jaqen often heard him use such expressions as _getting some action_ and maybe some more vulgar slang terms that could only be heard along the Ragman's Harbor in Braavos. And what better time than the present to let her go to him, when he was in a state of drowsiness and undress.

She was lovely even in her rage. He knew she would have soon found out that he was no prince. He purposely tried to skip the Lorathi speech pattern so that she could perhaps figure out his lies sooner. Unbeknownst to her, a few glimpses of the past had already resurfaced in her mind, but he needed to trigger all her memories of their life together somehow, and he believed rage to be the best means of achieving this.

"How could I tell you that I am a killer while you were just being attacked by another killer?"

"Nymeria is not a killer!" He narrowed his eyes upon hearing that name, but she didn't seem to realise what she had said. "And what in the Gods' name does it mean you're a killer?! You're a... You're a monster!" She brought her hands to her chest and he was afraid she was about to start hyperventilating. "I," she panted, "I need to sit down."

He ushered her into the room and to the settee. "Even though Lorath is undoubtedly a charming place to rule," he started as he closed the door behind them, "a place founded by people who did not believe in slavery, unlike what happened in my homeland," he gazed at her with a sombre expression, "no, I am not a prince. I am a killer. You want to kill people, and I have actually killed people. Why is this right for you and wrong for me?"

"Gods, who are you? I know you!"

"My name is Jaqen H'ghar, that is not a lie."

He sat next to her on the settee.

"I have always been Jaqen H'ghar," he murmured as he let his ancient features unfold, "once from the old city of Valyria."

Panic and astonishment coloured her next words as she stared at his now silver hair and purple eyes. "For fuck's sake!"

"And you are a daughter of the North. That is the reason why you feel like a stranger in King's Landing."

She was glaring at him.

"_Aria,_ please... Remember." Rage was a strong trigger, but... "_Avy jorrāelan._"

"_Qubroti jās!_" She yelled, and for a brief second everything went silent before she gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth in shock.

*

~ l ~ a ~ d ~ y ~ ~ s ~ t ~ a ~ r ~ k ~

She had just spoken with him in High Valyrian.

And what a colourful choice of words hers was.

"What..." They said in unison.

He reached out and settled his hands on her shoulders. "_Aria?_"

"What's happening?" She was shaking now. "What's happening?!"

"You are starting to remember." His voice was impossibly soft. And his eyes, oh, his eyes shined so impossibly purple. "It is me, _Aria..."_ She blinked. How many times she had lost herself in those eyes. "It is _us._"

It was as if a bolt of lightning hit her.

As if she had always been blind and her dreams were now beautiful visions alive before her eyes.

"Jaqen," she sobbed his name, "it's you! It's really you, Jaqen!"

Unrestrained she threw herself into his arms and let a river of tears flow from her eyes.

Four hundred years. How could it be possible?

His arms tightened around her, and just for a moment she let herself forget the world outside.

Before long, her sobs turned into shallow pants and– "Bloody corset!" She felt like fainting. _Not again!_ She had just found him and didn't want to lose him ever again, but he convinced her to rest for a while in his bed.

He smiled before leaving the room. "I will send a maid to help you out of that demonic tool."

Soon she was asleep.

_Winterfell, 1461_

Lord Jaqen H'ghar had travelled across every part of the known world. This time his loyal winged companion had taken him across the Narrow Sea, to Westeros. To the North.

One day, as he roamed the snow-covered woods, he felt the pull of magic. It was a strong magic, and it was running through the trees. A magic so powerful, only comparable to that of a dragon. A magic he had never witnessed before.

A direwolf.

He followed its pull, ran after the beast, ran until he found...

Her.

Lady Aria, daughter of the King of Winter. A Valyrian name, a tiny piece of his homeland in the vastness of Westeros. Magic brought him to her, and when their eyes met, they both knew. They were each other's destiny.

They fell in love.

The direwolf was her friend, Nymeria she called her. Oftentimes Aria sneaked out of her home and went into the woods north of the castle, to meet with her beast.

She's not mine, she always corrected him. She's my equal. No beast deserves to be kept in the cage of what we call possession.

One day, they witnessed Nymeria fighting and killing a bear who had killed a member of her pack. Aria was shocked at first. But that is the way of things, Jaqen explained. Only death may pay for life.

And one day, he took her to his dragon. He was such a small thing when the egg hatched; a comet had traced a bright crimson trail across the sky that night, from the west to the east, and Qēlīxes was the name Jaqen had chosen for him. For his _friend,_ as he soon started to call him. He is not a possession, he is my equal, he started to say.

Aria had never seen a dragon before. And she wanted to be able to communicate with him. I will teach you my tongue, Jaqen told her. I will teach you everything.

She learned quickly. But they kept using the Common Tongue with each other because his accent when he spoke her native language was adorable, she thought.

They kissed, they made love, they promised they would never be apart.

One night, they decided to swear that same promise in the castle's godswood, in front of the heart tree; they decided to bind their souls as one for all eternity.

The Gods witnessed their vows, and later their cries, when Jaqen had them both kneeling, his chest to her back, his arms holding her against him and his cock pounding into her as his hands fondled her everywhere and his voice grunted his devotion in her ear.

Moon after moon, a bliss unending.

But everything ends. A friend needed help.

Qēlīxes was suffering. Too much cold, too much _north._ And no other dragon to keep company with. They needed to go back, at least for a while.

Aria said her goodbyes. You brought him to me. I'll forever remember you, my friend. Nymeria licked her face, licked her tears. Her own were concealed by her fur.

The dragonlords were hateful, disdainful. They didn't accept her. They wouldn't let him get away with what he had done.

One day, they took her.

Their magic was strong, but different; obscure. It hurt. It tore at her from the inside. Jaqen, where are you? It hurts! A void, dark. She was falling. Falling! Jaqen!

"Jaqen!"

*

~ l ~ o ~ r ~ d ~ ~ h' ~ g ~ h ~ a ~ r ~

Jaqen didn't remember the last time he had shed a tear. He honestly did not. He was sure, however, that he wouldn't forget the silent tear that had fallen from his eyes when he had his arms clasped around her and his face snuggled into her hair.

Arya, his Aria, remembered his name. Remembered _him._

He had left her in his bedchamber, but his senses could still feel her. Her soft breathing, her eyes fluttering almost imperceptibly behind her closed lids, her sinuous body sliding between his sheets.

Her nightmares.

She was calling his name in her sleep. She was dreaming of the dragonlords. Of her _death._

He had left her alone for far too long. Without a second thought, he went to the door and silently entered the room.

As he walked to the bed, he spotted her corset tossed on a chair, its laces all shredded – Lollys had told him how Aria quite literally ripped it off of herself before slipping into the comfortable nightgown she was sleeping in now. He grabbed it and threw it into the crackling fireplace.

He considered waking her up, but that would probably cause her even more harm, so he decided to go to her in the shape of a mist, cocoon her body and try to comfort her as much as he could.

It was a few moons after the Doom when he learned that his body could now alter its form. Back then, he still had no control over his impulse to feed, and needed to vanish – literally – from the tangled situation he had found himself into; he was amazed to find out that his will alone was enough to initiate the process.

He let his flesh sublimate into vapour, crawled under the bedcovers, and carefully wrapped himself around her. While in this form, he couldn't feel her as he would with his touch, but she could obviously feel his presence, because soon her cries of pain turned into moans of pleasure. And the Seven New Gods and the Old Gods beyond counting help her, because soon he couldn't resist her anymore and turned back into his physical form.

Aria. Her flesh under his. So soft. Her warmth. Four hundred years. Her... arousal? He could smell it. It was faint, as if it had been there but now was no more, as if the brutality of her nightmares had swept the wetness away. And her breasts, oh, the shape of her lovely breasts beneath the thin fabric of the nightgown. He had to taste her skin. Taste her blood. It sang to him. Intoxicating.

He kissed her.

She opened her eyes.

"Jaqen," she breathed, the grogginess of sleep lingering in her voice. "Oh, Jaqen, what have they done to us?" She grasped his face in both hands and kissed him, harder than he did. "Feared I would never feel your touch again... Don't want to leave you..."

"You will not... Valyria is a pile of rubble, the dragonlords were wiped out..." And she was in his arms.

He felt delirious with joy.

She kissed him again, and bit him – oh, lovely teeth, how she had always loved to bite his lips! – and when he felt her smile against his mouth he couldn't help smiling back.

He began to unbutton her nightgown, his lips following his fingers as he trailed kisses down her neck, her collarbone, and stopped at her breasts. He cupped one in his hand and teased the nipple with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth. A wanton groan escaped her throat as he sucked, lightly, then sucked again, harder, and she pressed into him, boldly, demanding more.

_Oh, Aria._ He could worship her forever.

His other hand reached down and slid beneath her nightgown. He clutched her thigh as he growled against her nipple, and slowly trailed his hand back up, dragging the nightgown with it, baring her skin to his touch.

Her skin... His cock throbbed almost painfully when he realised that she wasn't wearing any smallclothes.

Something primal wound through him, and he let go of her nipple with a loud pop.

"Aria," his voice was low, a warning, before both of his hands grabbed the scant fabric still covering her and ripped it apart.

She was watching him. A smirk teasing her lips.

His head dipped down again, and mercilessly he kissed his way down her body, letting his hands roam over her lovely curves.

He could feel the shivers running through her as his mouth slowly approached her mound. Oh, the thought of tasting her, _eating_ her, after centuries of starvation... He almost spilled in his breeches.

Her arousal hit his senses. He raised his gaze and saw her eyes widen in lust.

He brushed his thumb across her dark curls, his other hand slipping between her thighs. She opened up for him, inviting him to feast on her, hips seeking, wanting, hands fisting the sheets tightly as he let a finger running down her slit.

When he felt her wetness, he was lost. He leaned in and buried his face between her lips.

"Jaqen..."

He used his fingers to open her folds, exposing her clit. Over the centuries, scholars had finally given a name to the small bundle of nerves that gave her so much pleasure; one more addition to the filthy vocabulary that he loved to breathe in her ear when she writhed against him and that she always complained about but made her impossibly wet all the same.

He raised his gaze again and held hers as his tongue darted out and touched her.

Her hips bucked up against him. And his ravenous mouth finally closed around her clit.

"Jaqen!"

Her hands were gripping his hair now, and as she pulled him even closer, it hit him.

She was unmarried. Quite possibly, this body had not lain with a man yet.

_Am I indeed a monster?_

Ravenous would not do. Not today. They would have all eternity for that.

He slowed down and began to languidly suck her, his hands rubbing her thighs with gentle strokes. Taking his time, he slid his tongue down to her opening. He felt her juices coat his tongue, his lips, his chin. Heard her sharp intake of breath as he pushed his tongue inside her. Felt her tighten around him to keep him from backing out. To draw him in. Deeper. _Lovely._

Ravenous would not do, but weak neither.

Soon his lips were closing again over her clit, one of his fingers easing inside her, and she shuddered in his grasp. _Aria..._ He wanted to fill her. He wanted his seed and his blood to soak through her, he wanted _her_ to soak through him. He wanted to drink.

He sucked harder, throwing a last glance at her lovely face, her lips parted in ecstasy, and her eyes, oh, her eyes, half-closed but fixed on him. Her moans, her ragged breath, her thighs tensing with anticipation.

Her back arched off the bed and she went completely still, his name dying in her throat as her walls convulsed around his finger and he felt her pulsing against his tongue. _Magnificent._

He kept his mouth on her and let her ride out her orgasm – another new word he was eager to whisper in her ear – and when she couldn't take it anymore he replaced his mouth with his thumb and sank his fangs into the soft flesh of her inner thigh.

She screamed so loud this time, and came, again, drenching his hand as her blood drenched his throat, so luscious, mixing with her juices in his mouth.

Her hands were still in his hair, pulling painfully, holding him to her. He licked at the wound, lazily, as her breath evened out, her energies completely drained.

Drained... As he listened to her pulse, another realisation hit him. _I could have drained her. Drained her of her blood. What if I could not stop?_

How could he be so foolish?

_And what if she does not want the life I forced on her, a life with me?_ Search for her; yes. Make her remember; yes, but... He never gave a thought to what he would do afterwards. Turn her? Curse her to chase blood and darkness for all eternity?

How could he be so selfish?

_Oh, my love, what have I done to you?_

Still lying between her legs, he sank his face into the mattress, hopeless and disheartened.

Long moments later, he felt her shifting on the bed, sitting up, her hands gently running down his back.

"How could this be possible? What you did... Who are you?" She asked again, so softly this time, as she leaned down and brushed her lips against his hair.

"I... I am... no one." His voice broke.

He pushed himself up and sat back on the bed, turning his face away from her.

"There is no life in this body. I am restless; alone. I took my revenge on the people who pulled us apart, and now I am dead to all the world. You said I am a monster... I really am. I am a _vampīr._"

"Jaqen–"

"I spent four hundred years blindly searching for you. I always took for granted that you still wanted me, still wanted the life we had, but never once did I consider that you have a new life now. And now I forced you to remember, forced you once again to the darkness. I ripped you away from the people you love. I am no different from those treacherous dragonlords!"

"Jaqen, stop!" She punched his back. "They ripped the people I love away from _me!_ My father... You! I've been dead for four hundred years; I've been dead until you found me. This body lives, but I only lived for revenge. Now maybe... Maybe... The life we had... The life we could _still_ have..." She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, forcing him to look at her. "I don't care what you are, because I love you! I still do!"

"Oh, Aria," he murmured as she captured his mouth, and they were kissing, kissing again, her arms keeping him close, his body pushing her back down.

"I want to be with you, as long as this magic you have inside you allows it," she breathed against his lips. "Make me like you."

"Aria..." He lifted his head, searched her eyes. "This is no joking thing. The magic in my blood allows me to live... forever. When my nameday comes, I do not age." He thought back to her being unmarried, and spoke his next words very carefully. "When I am hurt, magic heals me. If I turn you now, and if your... your–" But how could he tell her, how could he _ask_ her, how could he be so arrogant to presume that–

"My maidenhead on this body is still intact, and I don't want it to regenerate every time we are together."

"Oh, my love!" Closing his eyes in relief, he dipped down and nuzzled her chest with his nose.

"Jaqen, is it true that you don't need food to survive?"

"It is, yes. Only blood."

"Oh." Her face dropped. "Then we could wait until after my sister's wedding. You have to know that this body craves food. Any food. And Sansa will kill me if I don't– She expects me to eat all the tons of food she has without a doubt already reserved just for me."

He was not the ravenous one after all, he thought with a smile.

"The wedding is still a few moons away, so we would have enough time to get to know each other again. Although..." She paused and bit her lip. "The moment you slipped your finger inside me, I wanted it to be your cock."

"Lady Stark!" He purred in feigned outrage. "Who are _you_ and what have you done with the blushing damsel who could not even bear the sight of my chest?"

"Jaqen." She grasped his face in both hands again and looked him straight in the eye. "Four hundred years is enough."

*

_The King's Landing Evening Gazette, 1 November 1898_

THE BARATHEONS BLOODBATH!  
Notorious political leader found dead with family at the crack of dawn!

*

_Valar morghūlis._

Well... _Almost_ all.

**Author's Note:**

> Ānogar glaeson iksis... se ñuhon ūja kessa! – The blood is the life... and it shall be mine! (of course let's imagine the whole flashback is spoken in High Valyrian)  
Avy jorrāelan – I love you  
Qubroti jās! – Fuck off!  
Valar morghūlis – All men must die
> 
> Aria is the High Valyrian spelling of Arya. She didn't speak the language (before meeting Jaqen) but apparently her parents did, and named her that way.
> 
> Vampīr(a) is my dumb made-up translation for vampire(s)
> 
> For Qēlīxes, I used the same root word of qēlos (star) and qēlītsos (candle or literally little star) – btw, [here's a pic](https://ewinofthelake.tumblr.com/post/187992089253) of Jaqen and baby Qēlīxes minutes after the hatching <3 XD
> 
> Oh, and according to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, the first known use of the words clitoris and orgasm dates back to 1615 and 1763 respectively. A man knows ;)
> 
> *
> 
> Check [my drabble collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19190776) for one more little Halloween treat <3


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